


Game of Shadows

by Luxie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, Emotions, Forced Orgasm, Handcuffs, M/M, Mention of Bondage, Mention of lots of rough sex, Object Insertion, Orgasm Control, Tentacles, a lot of the kinky shit in this happened in the past, mention of choking, mention of past very dubious consent, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 11:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11508657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luxie/pseuds/Luxie
Summary: In the Game of Shadows you either lead or follow, but after five years Reaper isn't sure who's chasing who, nor is he exactly sure what happens when one of them catches up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Ajuste de cuentas_ : Settling of scores or grudge match.

In his earpiece he hears Widowmaker's soft coos as she urges an unsuspecting target to move a step to the left. It should be unnerving, listening to her play with her food, but Reaper isn't going to pretend he doesn't do the same at times. He spots her on a rooftop, across the hectic marketplace-turned-battlefield, just as she pulls the trigger and her victim drops. It is a headshot and Reaper guesses, from that distance, there's very little head left.

“Like a little puppet,” She mocks over the comm, laughter in her voice.

 _If only she knew_ , Reaper thinks, but he suspects no one alive today knows the origin story of Widowmaker. Except for him, but he sure as hell isn't going to tell her; if Reaper is still capable of a single act of mercy, then let this be it.

How many times has he wished that the quacks had done right by him when they remade him, wished they had wiped him properly clean so that Gabriel Reyes could have gotten the death he had earned? Instead they had fucked up and Reaper is left with memories that means nothing to him, but haunts him all the same. Memories of Jack. Memories of Jesse and Ana, of a bright-eyed little Fareeha bouncing on her mother's shoulders. Jack, and more Jack. Endless recordings of someone else's happiness.

No, Widowmaker is better off never knowing who she was and how they made her. She's a puppet now, but at least she's unaware.

“You're quiet,” She purrs, just before another of her bullets find its target. “Is it because he's not here?”

“Oh, he's here, alright.” Reaper rasps and watches as she presses her eye back to the scope of her rifle to scan the marketplace, as if she actually expects Jack to be hiding between the stalls.

“How do you know?” She sounds vaguely breathless and if Reaper though her capable of actual feelings he would probably put it down to something like _excitement_.

“Because _I'm_ here.” He says, fitting the mask back on his face with practiced fingers.

“You know,” Sombra's cocky voice chimes in; It's a secure line, but that has never stopped her. She clicks her tongue before continuing, “it doesn't seem very lucrative to hire someone who brings along his own personal _ajuste de cuentas_.”

She's right, of course, but she's also young. Smart as hell, but inexperienced, especially when it comes to tactics. She goes in with a backdoor, which means she never has to think too far ahead, because if things get too hot she's out of there in the blink of an eye.

“Maybe they hire me to be here to make sure Jack isn't somewhere else.” Reaper says before dissolving and gliding down into the alley below, materializing behind an armed guard to snap his neck.

“That _would_ be smart.” Sombra says, not even trying to hide the note of awe in her voice.

She has her own agenda and floats into Talon's Headquarter whenever she feels like it, but despite all her petulance and sarcasm Reaper knows the kid looks up to him, even if she'd never admit it. He doesn't mentor her, knows that Sombra is an asset because of her independence, not despite it. On the rare occasion she does ask for advice Reaper actively tries not to compare her to the memories he carries of a young Jesse McCree, both eager and headstrong, always ready for a pissing match they couldn't possibly win, but his scrambled brain isn't very helpful in that department. Instead it keeps pulling out memories: young Jesse McCree smiling on a beach in Arizona, sun setting behind him; even younger Jesse McCree asleep on the couch in the rec room, Gabriel dropping a blanket over him to keep his sorry ass from freezing off during the night. With all Reaper has lost of himself, these are some of the memories that linger. Sometimes they stir up an unwanted feeling of affection that he can't account for the origin of, but mostly they leave him feeling betrayed and angry.

Maybe it's the knowledge that the Jesse in his memories is dead now, much in the same way that Gabriel Reyes is dead. Someone else is wearing his hat these days, someone Reaper doesn't even know. Someone older, more careful and a little slower on the draw, even if he can still waste six men between hearts beats. Well, maybe it's not exactly the same, but thinking like that makes it a whole lot easier to shoot at him, even with the memories.

Ana Amari would drop him like a sack of flour if she heard him rationalizing murder like that. Not that she was ever any better herself, she just wanted _them_ to be, him and Jack, and Fareeha, too.

“ _Gabriel Reyes_.” She had said, voice like the scorching desert sun. Fareeha had been running around on the tarmac, arms stretched out to the sides as she made plane noises with her lips. Gabriel had said something stupid, something like, _if it isn't Amari the Younger, keeping the skies friendly._

“My girl will never be like me.” Ana had told him and she had a way of punching you in the face just by looking at you. She had been wrong, of course. Fareeha is a killer now, just as her mother had been, racking up quite the toll. In the meantime he and Jack had turned their backs on everything the three of them had fought for, just to play a game of Shadow.

“Payload secured.” Widowmaker says over the comm, a note of _job well done_ in her voice. Reaper knows better, though. For all he cares the job has just begone.

“I'm going hunting.” he tells them, turning off the earpiece before pulling his shotguns out of thin air.

It isn't actually a hunt as much as it is a dance. Reaper will lead and Jack will follow, just as it had been since the two had first been partnered up in SEP. Jack had been a good little soldier then, but he had grown, physically and strategically, eclipsing almost everyone in the program, until there was no doubt that the Golden Boy himself had become a proper little Hero. Emotionally, though, Jack had struggled. He had never seen actual combat before, had never lost a comrade in the field, had never had another person's life in his hands, let alone a whole world.

“There're three of us,” Ana had told Jack. “you don't have to carry the weight alone.”

Whether or not Jack had believed her didn't matter. He had believed Gabriel, believed _in_ him, from the first time Gabriel had picked him up in their shared quarters and fucked him against the drywall.

 _I've got you_ , Gabriel had whispered, a breathless promise that later became their mantra.

“Got you,” Reaper whispers in mock imitation, as he catches the familiar flash of a red visor out of the corner of his eye. Jack is careful, but Reaper knows him too well, knows exactly which position Jack would choose as his vantage point.

The first bullet is a warning shot, casually informing Jack that the game is on. The next one is from Jack's pulse rifle, ripping through Reaper's chest cavity. Then the dance begins in earnest. They move through the city, through alleyways and deserted streets, over a railing and under a bridge, their shots echoing between the concrete pillars.

Reaper knows they are stirring up a racket, knows that even the most shit-for-brains Talon operative would be able to track their path of destruction through the city, but whether Jack thinks Reaper is here alone or if he just doesn't care about backup arriving, he doesn't seem to be in a rush to finish. Reaper can't even tell if either of them are shooting to kill anymore. Jack can't possibly expect to do anything but slow Reaper down and Reaper himself, well, let's just say he enjoys the thrill of the chase more than the kill.

That sentiment comes back to bite him in the ass when they round the corner of a little hole-in-the-wall food truck, Reaper first, soaring backwards to keep Jack in his sight, and Jack following closely, rifle raised. It's a dead end and Reaper instantly knows his only way out of this shit situation is a kill shot. He contemplates what would happen if he gave the upper hand to Jack, if he let himself be at Jack's mercy. He wonders if there is any mercy left.

“So, Jack.” Reaper says, just to break the ice. “You've got a pretty clean shot from there.”

“I'm just wondering whether it would be enough to kill you, and trying to determine how much damage you could inflict before I've reloaded.”

“One point five seconds is a long time." Reaper agrees.

 Just then Reaper's earpiece crackles to life and not surprisingly it's Sombra.

“You look a little pressured,” her smug voice is filled with laughter, “Widowmaker has a shot, do you want her to take it?”

“No.” Reaper says, and it seems to take Jack a moment to realize Reaper isn't talking to him. “Nobody touches Jack except for me.”

"I'm not talking about your ex." 

Reaper drags his eyes off of Jack and lets his eyes skitter across the rooftops, quickly scanning the shadows for any sign of a scope light. Across from him Jack's grip on his rifle tightens, but he seems unaware of any other source of danger than the one in front of him. The only warning is a faint hiss of air before the arrow hits Jack in the shoulder, making him lose his grip on the pulse gun. He drops to the ground, crouching to hide his broad back behind the food stall's folding sign. Reaper himself falls to one knee, keeping his head down for good measures. 

“I said-” Reaper snarls, but Sombra is already in his ear.

“It wasn't us!” She says, slight panic tainting her reassurance, which is reasonable considering she's familiar with Reaper's wrath. Across from him Jack cranes his neck to look at the arrow sticking out of the back of his shoulder. It's lodged deep, by the look of it, but Jack still pulls it out cleanly in one yank, letting out a low hiss of pain.

Reaper looks at the arrow in Jack's hand, the design of it, and with a twist in his guts he mutters, “Overwatch.” watching as Jack's eyes widen in surprise. “Our kids are here, Jack.”

“They're not here for me.” Jack says, as if he believes it.

“You've got a shoulder wound 'says otherwise.” Reaper points out. “Maybe they don't recognize you, maybe they don't _like_ you. Either way, they're not your allies.”

Jack grunts, looking pale behind his mask.

"Come on, Jackie. If you wanna shoot me, shoot me now.” Reaper says, “Shoot me, or let me go.”

The words are barely spoken before Jack has his rifle raised in a second, holding it stretched out with his non-dominant hand as if it was made of nothing but cardboard and foam. He doesn't shoot. Another beat and the rifle drops a fraction, and in the end, so does Jack's gaze. Taking the dismissal, Reaper dissolves and slides out of view. Jack makes no move to stop him.

As soon as he's out in the open Reaper draws all the heat from the Overwatch team, leading them on a wild goose chase and leaving Jack alone in the alley to lick his wounds. Under normal circumstances it wouldn't take Jack long to heal up, but today he had looked on the verge of tipping over from exhaustion. 

In the old days Jack seemed to have no physical limits. It didn't matter if it was ten successive hours of UN bureaucratic bullshit or four straight hours combat training on the mat. Stamina was never Jack's problem, courtesy of SEP, and if Jack and Gabriel had occasionally abused that stamina for hour long fucks that cost them two beds and a solid oak dining table, and left a very conspicuous indentation where Gabriel had slammed Jack into a solid concrete wall, then that was their business.

No, Jack's limits were all in his head. What was the tolerable number of civilian casualties on any given mission. What was acceptable when it came to interrogations of human prisoners. How close could Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison appear to be when in public.

The last one drew blood and tears, more than a few times. Gabriel was allowed to grip Jack's perfectly moussed hair and fuck his mouth, but God forbid anyone ever found out. Not because Jack was ashamed, oh no, that Gabriel could have dealt with. No, Jack's issue had been that he was convinced that if the world knew about them it would take Overwatch away from them and the world would be worse off, and Gabriel barely knew how to argue that, because it wasn't insane or petty or cowardly. Still he fought and he lost, and at the same time as he was losing Jack Gabriel had been losing himself, struggling against paperwork and orders and the ever-growing scrutiny of an ungrateful world that was obliged to thank them, but really wanted to tell the whole of Overwatch and Blackwatch alike to go crawl into a dark corner and not come out until they were needed again. He didn't blame the people for their contempt, not really. How were they to know the cost of war, the sacrifices that had to be made? They hadn't fought their own battle, instead watching on the news as heroes fought it for them.

In came Akande Ogundimu with a solution to all of Gabriel's problems. If Overwatch were to fall and new conflict were to break out mankind would have to step up and be their own heroes, be strong again, be worthy. And Gabriel could have Jack all to himself. At the time it had seemed like the perfect solution and Gabriel had let himself get swept away in the fantasy of it all, not seeing how he was changing, drifting. He didn't have a chance once Talon had poisoned his mind. He had been their puppet, just like Amélie had been when she killed Gérard, the love of her life. Gabriel should have known that was what Talon had wanted from him all along, a way to get to Jack, but by the time he realized he was too far gone, too deep in their web.

Reaper circles back towards the marked place where his team had secured their payload just hours ago. It's a good stage for a gunfight, something Reaper knew the importance of, even when he was still Gabriel. Set the stage and make your opponent feel uncomfortable and outmatched from the go. You could get a lot of good intel from a prisoner just by putting him in a dark room with scrape marks and blood stains on the walls and a drain in the floor.

The side of a heavy pulse rifle comes swinging out of the shadows before Reaper can react and it sends him flying backwards. He hits a stack of crates that smashes and splinters, and for a moment the combined pain of a dislocated shoulder and a torn ligament blindsides him. Then he rotates his shoulder back into its socket with a hiss and by the time he gets to his feet his cells are already mostly done knitting themselves back together again. Then he laughs.

It's a low but genuine chuckle, because nothing improves his mood like Jack flexing his muscles like this. The sound makes Jack grunt, like he doesn't quite believe how immature Reaper can be about this.

“You were here before I was.” Reaper says, not even feeling a tiny bit angry that his plans to set a trap had been foiled, because oh, how Jack knows him so well.

“You're predictable.” Jack just says, voice cold, deadly.

“I can probably still surprise you.” Reaper says taking a single step closer. Jack raises his gun and takes a step back, but he's so focused on Reaper that he misses the actual danger. The purple poison trap, left behind by Widowmaker, activates and sends Jack into a coughing fit. For a moment Reaper just watches Jack go to one knee to keep from toppling over, waits for the worst of the poison to evaporate before he steps in and presses the mouth of his gun to Jack's temple.

“Oh, Jack. You always looked good like that.” Reaper says, clarifying, "At my mercy."

Jack winches at the words, or maybe at the pain from the arrow wound in his shoulder, the arm hanging limply at his side. He is still holding on to the pulse rifle, even if he must know Reaper could stop him before he even got a shot off, but even beaten like this the defiance never leaves Jack. Instead he stays stiff, firm; in control, even when he's not, and that's not how Reaper wants him at all. He wants to see Jack Morrison squirm.

“Remember all the times Gabriel strapped you down and you both knew you could break the rope if you wanted to, but if you did Gabriel would stop touching you and that was a risk you'd never take, no matter how slowly he went, how long he teased you.”

“That's a lot of times to remember.” Jack says coldly.

“I remember all of them.” Reaper assures him, and he really does. The memories won't leave him alone, never does, not even at a time like this. They push in, cloud his judgement and make him a fool. Even with the mouth of his gun pressed to Jack's head he isn't taking the shot, because Gabriel wouldn't.

Maybe it's the damn nostalgic fog clouding his vision, because he doesn't see it; Doesn't see the twitch in Jack's shoulder, the injured one, just before Jack moves and a knife cuts Reaper's left Achilles tendon. Reaper hisses, dissolves and slides backwards out of reach, and he catches his bearings just in time to see the back of Jack's stupid jacket slip out of sight. The injured bird-act, Reaper realizes, a trick Gabriel had taught him, which makes it as good as a playful taunt, if not exactly a declaration of love.

Reaper barely has time to gather himself for pursuit before he hears the rapid report of machine gun fire up ahead and watches with an odd mixture of amusement and disbelief as Jack comes running back out of the alleyway just to throw himself against a wall, pressing into the shadows. His eyes are on Reaper, but his weapon is not, which tells Reaper all he needs to know about their enemy. For all Jack knows Reaper wants to put a bullet through his temporal lobe or rip out his still beating heart - whatever the situation allows for - but right now Jack is willing to risk that, which means that whatever is coming is apparently the bigger threat. So, omnics.

Reaper could get away, of course, but Jack couldn't, not on his own, not injured. After all this time, is Reaper really willing to let a machine end Jack Morrison?

As if predicting Reaper's decision, or maybe just going by blind trust, Jack pushes off the wall and darts towards him. As soon as Jack leaves his cover the bullets rain down over him, machine gun fire and larger rounds from a Bastion, so Reaper answers it with a salvo of his own.

“I'm only saving your hide so I can tear it off you myself.” Reaper growls, but Jack seems fine with that.

Back to back they sync up into a mix between their old combat style, quirked to compensate for the new techniques and tricks they had both picked up over the past few years. As they've both learned a long time ago, there is no Standard Operation Procedure when it comes to omnics. They are constantly learning, adapting, and you cannot plan for what they'll do. That was why militaries around the world had failed horribly against them, and why Overwatch – filled to the brim with impulsive and eccentric showoffs – had succeeded.

They fight as Reaper and Soldier:76, but they also fight as Jack and Gabe, deadly and reckless, taking down every incoming threat with precision and the passion of revenge. At one point Reaper takes a shell to the chest, making him temporarily unable to maintain his solid form. Jack keeps both of their backs covered, while Reaper waits for his cells to pull together in his parody of healing.

Out of the corner of his eye Jack is looking at him recover, almost as if he can't help himself; Like looking at a traffic accident. Reaper almost growls at him to keep his eyes on the enemy, but then a Bastion gets a good shot off and a shell explodes just feet from them both, knocking them against a wall. For a terrible minute Jack is out and Reaper is left to face the dwindling number of omnics on his own. Then Jack is struggling to his feet, front and left side covered in blood, but he stays on his feet and his aim is acceptable, so Reaper takes that as a good sign.

He tries not to think about what is going to happen after, when the threat is annulled, but then the last two omnics comes clanking around the corner and Reaper knows he is going to get exactly what he wants. Making sure he is in Jack's line of sight he tosses his shot guns and pulls two new ones out of thin air. It's a movement that takes seconds, but it's enough time for Jack to realize that the shots are his to make. He fires, two shots, and when the echo dies out the marked falls eerily quiet, gunfire still ringing in their ears. Next to him Jack exhales.

Then, at the exact same time, the two of them spins, guns raised and aimed at the other. One threat down, new priority. They both freeze in place, breathing hard from adrenaline and the fight itself.

Then Reaper smirks behind his mask, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Oh, Jackie,” he says, moving one clawed index finger from the trigger to tap it against the side of his own shotgun. “You forgot to count.”

Reaper knows to keep an eye out for it, the way Jack's shoulders tense and his whole posture shifts when he realizes that he is out of ammo and utterly fucked as a result. There isn't a single thing about the situation that Reaper isn't loving. Jack hurt and unarmed, Reaper in control, the adrenaline and the rush of the fight. He couldn't have planned for this, but damn if he isn't going to abuse it.

Jack seems to understand the full gravity of his situation, but he doesn't look scared. He looks like Reaper feels, like blood is rushing the wrong way for reason to hold up, but it's not really that surprising. Jack had always liked having control taken from him. All that power and responsibility, and the only thing Jack truly loved was when it was all stripped away and he was left defenseless under Gabriel's touch.

The harder Gabriel pushed Jack when they were alone, the more he realized that as unrelenting as Jack could be on the battlefield, just as pliable could he become in the bedroom.

Slowly Reaper reaches out to brush the back of his gloved hand over Jack's unprotected temple. Jack sucks in a ragged breath, shutting his eyes against the sight of Reaper. Maybe he's trying to fool himself, even if just for a moment, that it's Gabriel instead.

“Come on Jackie.” Reaper says, laughter in his voice. “I know you like it.”

“Not with you.”

“I'm still him.”

“You're nothing like him.”

“I have his memories though. I can pretend.” and Reaper changes his shape. With all the shit Jack has seen through the years, Reaper has never seen him look as horrified as he does when faced with the shape of Gabriel Reyes. There's no fear in Jack's voice, though, no anger. Not even a hint of begging.

The single word comes out low and controlled: “Don't.”

Reaper lets the form melt away. It's impossible for him to hold it anyway, not for more than a few minutes, but Jack's reaction to it had been more than enough to tell him what he wanted to know.

“You not angry at me, you're angry at him.” It's not an accusation, but Jack looks like he just got slapped across the face. “You think he chose this because of you?”

“Shut up.” Jack says.

“That's a lot of guilt to carry.”

 

“ _Shut up!_ ” It's somewhere between a yell and a growl, more feral than Reaper has ever heard Jack sound before. He's heard him broken and angry and wrecked with emotion, but never like this.

“Well, here's some more for you. Remember the night before the explosion, that night in Geneva when you held me down and fucked me? You were under so much political pressure and you didn't even look me in the eyes. You just wanted to work off your anger and shoot your load inside me. And all the while I was screaming inside my head for you to stop. To notice how _wrong_ it was. I didn't go to Talon, Jack, they came to me. They brainwashed me, they broke me, and you never even noticed. You wanna direct your anger at someone? Look in a mirror!”

“Stop. I don't believe you.”

Reaper does stop then, because there is no pleasure in kicking a man who's already down. Instead he leans in close.

“You want to chase me all around the world then I'll welcome the company, Jackie, but don't delude yourself into thinking you will feel any better when you kill me.”

With those words Reaper dissolves and disappears into the night, leaving Jack alone in the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter with Imagine Dragons' "Believer" on repeat. The music video, that is. I love the part where they pause and one guy says, "I want to stop." and the other guy goes, "We can't."  
> That interlude always makes me think of Jack and Gabe, and their dance.
> 
> Bonus: You know the scene from Angle, where Wesley is dying so Illyria transforms into Fred and pretends to be her while Wesley dies in her arms. Imagine Reaper and Jack.


	2. Chapter 2

The office is small and dingy, but an excellent vantage point – elevated, with big windows looking out over the floor level of the shut-down factory. He has crammed in a mattress, resting on top of a make-shift bed frame of pallets. A low stool has been commandeered as nightstand, displaying four different kind of pill bottles, a box of Kleenex and a bottle of lube, because all alone and with no one to care, Jack has dropped all pretense. Littering the floor is a handful of tissues that leaves little doubt what they have been used for, even if the stale air of the room hadn't still been reeking of come.

Jack is barely through the door before there's a buzzing sound from his bag. He couldn't be less in the mood and decides to wait it out, but it stops and starts again. On the third ring he digs it out and accepts the call, not even looking at the display. He knows.

“Angela.”

“Jack, we need you to come in.” She says, no pleasantries this time.

“You've got yourself a new sniper.”

“Yes well, we needed one and Ana is like you; She refuses to listen to reason.”

“Reason, right now, would be a good meal and a hot shower.”

“Don't pretend you have access to either." Angela says, voice heavy with impatience. "You're probably hauled up under a pier somewhere.”

 _Close_ , Jack thinks and shrugs off his jacket with a groan. Angela, of course, doesn't miss a thing like that.

“How badly are you hurt?” she demands.

“He's a good shot, I'll give him that. Where'd you pick him up?”

“He is Genji's brother.”

“The assassin?” He has met Hanzo Sjimada, been in the receiving end of his aim more than once. He should have recognized the MO, but he hadn't thought Overwatch would be that desperate. “You're picking up criminals again?”

“Jesse turned out just fine.” That he had, much better than Jack had first expected when Gabe dragged the kid home from a mission.

“He hasn't exactly been keeping his nose clean for the past five years.” Jack says, removing his Kevlar with a winch.

“Neither have you, Jack. But if you come in, I promise, the UN will understand. They'll give you clemency.”

“The UN will demand to know what happened in Geneva, _why_ it happened. I couldn't tell them five years ago and I can't do it now.”

“Don't you think they know, Jack?” Angela says, but Jack knows they couldn't know, because barely anyone did. Jack and Gabriel had been quiet about it, because even though it was no one's business it was still _everyone's_ business and Jack wasn't prepared for the fall out. He wasn't prepared to lose Overwatch. Ana had known, of course, and maybe Jesse, too, but none of them would have ratted them out then, and certainly not since, given how busy they've both been, running circles around any Government Agency stupid enough to come at them. 

On the other end Angela picks up again, voice stern. “Like you, we've been tracking Reaper. We even managed to get a sample of his cells. Given the specific _brand_ of genetic manipulation that has been done to him, I'd say we have Moira O’Deorain to thank for it."

“Moira? She was Head of Blackwatch Medical Science Department.” Jack recalls.

"Which means she had access to Gabriel for years before the explosion." Angela adds. "We never could explain how Talon rose so fast, why they always seemed one step ahead of us. Even after we realized how deeply Blackwatch had been infiltrated it never made sense, because Blackwatch was so isolated. Until someone mentioned Amélie.”

“Lacroix?” 

“When Talon picked her it was because no one else could have gotten to Gérard. Just like no one could get to you."

"Except for Gabe, who had full access to me." Jack concludes, dragging a hand over his face. Six years and he still isn't ready to deal with this. "I thought... All this time I thought he had _chosen_ them, that he had gone to Talon after the explosion," _to spite me, to hurt me, to punish me._

“He probably only survived because of what they had done to him. I'm sorry, Jack." Angela says, and she truly sound it. "You would have known all this if you'd just come in.”

“The UN wanted new leadership and now they have it.” Jack is perfectly aware how contrite and bitter that makes him sound, but for the past five years he's been an unwanted, a super soldier turned leader turned vigilante, who's been fighting to clean up a mess he didn't make, but still feels responsible for. So yeah, maybe he's bitter. A bitter, old man. “I trained Lena and Gabriel trained Jesse. They're both good kids, they'll get things done the right way.”

“Jack, we have to talk about this.” Angela presses.

“I know, and you'll call me up again next week and shame me some more, tell me to take responsibility, tell me to get over the pain. Am I missing something?”

“At least come in and let me give you a physical. Have you even seen a doctor since the explosion?”

“I healed up fine.”

“I don't doubt that.” Angela's voice is full of pain like it always was when they talked about Jack and Gabriel and what had been done to them at SEP. It hurt her, hurt her as a doctor, because she held deep respect for the original human design, but also because both of them had acted like they were indestructible, like reckless goddamn teenagers in their daddy's car.

“Maybe just to talk, then?” She was unrelenting. “Jack, please the others are talking about bringing you in. The hard way.”

Not really a surprise. “Come on, Angela, you have to buy me some time, a few more months and I'll have him.”

“I'm not your secretary and to be frank, this whole chasing Reaper across the globe is so unhealthy-”

“I thought we already covered the shaming part.”

“Your body may heal up, but your mind is broken, Jack.” The words are loud and sharp like a knife. No more silky persuasion, then. No more cotton gloves. For a long stretch of time the line is quiet and this time it is Jack who breaks the silence.

“Just, please, give me another month...” It's been five years since Jack last begged for something. The word rips his throat and he stops speaking for fear of his voice cracking.

“I can't,” She says, voice worn and small. “But we have bigger problems than you, so if you stay out of our way then we'll stay out of yours. And Jack,” She pauses. “we will shoot to kill if we see him.”

“I know.” Jack says, thinking, _good luck with that_. He ends the call and for a moment he just stands there. Then he strips out of his shirt and starts roaming his bag for first-aid supplies.

He has a large bruise forming on the side of his chest, blooming into a morass of dark colors. He still has the wound from Shimada's arrow in his shoulder, but it's already scabbing. A shrapnel from a Bastion shell is still lodged in his sternum – a lucky miss – and a couple of grazing bullets have torn open his abdominal muscles, the wound still oozing blood. With practiced hands he picks out the metal with tweezers and his army knife, and starts dressing the wound. It will leave a cluster of scars and he might get an infection, but a fever will burn that out overnight.

He opens his cargoes to get access to the bullet wound on his hip, pulling down one side. The skin has tried to heal against the rough fabric and peeling it off hurts like a bitch. It's not as bad as he had fists thought. The bullet is pressing against bone, but must have been a ricochet, because it hasn't gone as deep as it could have.

He tries to focus his tired mind, just this one last thing and he can pass out, but then there is a smell of gunpowder residue and ozone and dark promises, and Jack barely feels the blow that lands to the back of his head.

***

When Jack wakes he is still in the dingy office, which makes sense, because Jack had chosen this spot because it was remote and undisturbed. It was a perfect place to hide out and the perfect place to keep someone prisoner. His hands are cuffed on his back, stronger metal than what Jack can break in that angle, but his legs are free and the door is unlocked, slightly ajar. Reaper had left it like that on purpose, to mock Jack, to tease him, _come play_. Jack could make a run for it if only he could get lose from the chain, but he isn't twisted enough to try. With some effort he gets to his feet and starts pacing and as he walks he feels the chain slip between his bare thighs. It's bolted to the wall and long enough to give him room to move around, even long enough to let him get within inches of the door, but not without considerable pressure against the inside of his rim.

Ball and chain, Jack thinks, but this is new.

The ball inside him is big enough to make Jack's stomach bulge, stretching him and pressing against his prostate hard enough that, even worried for his life, Jack's cock is teased fully erect. He could work it out, probably. In time. He has taken bigger things, or at least things just as big, but that was in the past, when Gabe kept his rim lose and pliant with plugs. Jack hasn't had anything inside him bigger than a couple of fingers for years. Reaper must know that, he must have felt exactly how tight Jack was when he worked the ball inside of him. The thought makes Jack feel vulnerable, even if it's a stupid thing to fixate on when he's stark naked and chained up and completely at the mercy of a ghost that wants him dead.

He ends up getting back in the bed, which turns out to be a mistake, because lying on his back like that means his eyes are instantly drawn to the bulge. From the prominent swell of it Jack judges the ball inside him to be roughly the size of a very large fist. Hell, this isn't even the kinkiest shit Jack has had done to him, but most of it he _let_ be done to him, with his consent.

With Jack's enhancement he could take a lot. Once Gabe had fucked him with a bottle of champagne. It had taken hours to get his hole lose enough, but neither of them had doubted Jack's ability to take it. Jack had certainly enjoyed it, Hell, he had come twice just from Gabe playing with his ass, working his rim. And then, after, they had both passed out, Jack both fucked out and drunk from the champagne Gabe had poured into his gaping hole. He had woken up the next day with the bottle still inside him. During the night his rim had returned to something closer to its natural state, clenched around the much thinner bottleneck. It had been a bitch to get out and Gabe had been no help, crouched in the corner, grinning as he filmed the whole thing.

Maybe that's where Reaper got the idea for this, from the memory of that night, rattling around inside that twisted mind of his. Which means he probably remembers all of it, every night they spent together, every sweat-sleeked afterglow, every blowjob and every time Jack begged for Gabriel to go harder. Jack once thought that he would never find anyone who could get him off as good as Gabriel had. Maybe that still holds true, which is fucking depressing, because Gabriel Reyes is a ghost. Now there is only Reaper and Reaper belongs on the battlefield where Jack can fight him as uncompromisingly and completely as he once surrendered to Gabriel.

This time he hears him, heavy combat boots on the metal stairs outside. He's still in costume, mask and coat and metal-tipped gloves. It makes him look menacing in a fight, and Jack isn't immune to it either, especially not in his current state of vulnerability. A single clawed finger could slice him open. He would heal up with barely a scar to show for it, if Reaper gave him time, but that just meant he could slice there again and again. A normal person could only take so much, but Jack's body was designed to endure. His mind wasn't.

“You look a little worse for wear,” Reaper rasps, making Jack's muscles tighten. “and we haven't even started yet.”

Jack pushes backwards as Reaper moves closer, until in the end, he is popped up against the wall, “How did you find me?”

“You leave little puddles of blood when ever you pause to catch your bearings.” Reaper sighs. “You used to be so careful.” Whether he's talking about Jack leaving a trace or about him getting shot in the first place is a coin toss.

“Yeah, well. I'm getting old.” Jack mutters.

“Not that old.”

Jack just stares back at him, and what else can he do, really? Confess? Tell his lover-turned-nemesis that he just doesn't care anymore, that Reaper's words in that market place had taken what little Jack had left? Maybe he already knows. Maybe that is why he's here.

“Jack. Jackie.” Reaper coos, but with his grating voice the effect is hair-raising. “Are you giving up?”

Jack doesn't deny it, because yeah, maybe he is. It's not like he has a lot left. Angela wants him to come in, but not to help. Just so they can keep an eye on him and control him, and after five years on his own he doubts he could deal with that.

Both Gabriel and Reaper would punch Jack in the face for giving up, because both had build their life around him, one way or another. But Gabriel is gone and there's only Reaper left to do the job. The blow falls across Jack's jaw, not a soldier's punch or a lover's slap, but an honest to god Gabriel Reyes back-hand that sends Jack to the count. For a moment Reaper looks at him, at the way Jack is toppled sideways on the bed, panting as he tries to adjust. The bruise is probably already rising and in a few hours it'll be gone, but it seems Reaper is intent to watch his handiwork bloom.

Back in the days Gabriel always had a thing for marking Jack up as his, but not like this, never like this. This is a display of dominance that only Reaper would take pleasure in. They had been rough with each other, sure. Rough enough that had they not both been Super Soldiers they would have inflicted serious damage, but that had been the whole point. They _were_ Super Soldiers, complete with increased stamina and durability, not to mention they had been young and stupid. And horny. If you weren't going to abuse that in the bedroom then you were a fucking idiot.

They had both been more than capable of getting out of anything less than actual chains, but what did that matter when you had your own personal super soldier to pin your wrists to the headboard and hold you down while they fucked you senseless? Once or twice Gabriel had choked Jack to the point of almost passing out. They had slammed each other into walls and left bruises all over one another. A few times Gabe had fucked him using nothing but spit and Jack's come to slick the way, because they were balls deep behind enemy lines with no proper lube at hand. More times than Jack could count had they fucked with the smallest amount of stretching, because they had both been dying just hours before and they needed to come together right fucking now. The pain had been lost in the rush and they had healed up fully within hours, leaving nothing but the memory of discomfort and an almost shameful brand of satisfaction.

After a few minutes Jack begins to feel exposed under Reaper's stare. He rolls over on his side, which turns out to be a mistake, because the ball nudges against his prostate and he isn't prepared. The groan that leaves his mouth is shamefully loud. Reaper just keeps watching him from behind his mask

“So this is it, hu?” Jack asks and swallows. “I'm left naked and you're still in full battle uniform. Is this how you expect to break me?”

“I have no intention of breaking you, Jack.” Reaper says, then lets out an audible sigh. "I can't have you quitting on me now, can I?" Slowly he reaches up and removes his mask, swiping his hood back in the same movement. Then, Jack watches as he slips off his gloves and drops them to the floor. It takes so little for the monster to come undone.

When his body is not fighting to heal up injuries it seems Reaper is more in control of his form. Smoke coils around him, but he has a solid face, Gabriel's face. 

“Does this make it easier to hate me, or harder?” Reaper asks, but Jack doesn't think there's an easy answer. It's like asking, does the past five years hurt less knowing that I didn't betray you willingly? The answer is no. It just hurts for a different reason.

“How long are you planning to keep me here?” Jack asks instead, shifting on the bed so he can pull up one leg to partially hide his erection.

Reaper smiles. “I'm not keeping you. You're free to go.” he says, gesturing towards the door. “I'm just here to keep you company.”

“So if I get free?” Jack presses.

“Your gun and your clothes are right outside the door.”

Jack considers his options, which is easy, because there aren't many. His best chance is to trust Reaper, trust that his word is good. He has never outright lied to Jack, but that doesn't mean he won't.

With Gabriel it had been all about trust. About giving himself over, knowing that Gabriel would sometimes take just an inch more than what was given, but never more than Jack could handle. Everyone knew that Blackwatch only worked because the trust between Jack and Gabe went bone deep, but this isn't Gabriel and, hell, Jack isn't even Jack anymore.

Reaper doesn't stop him when Jack arcs his back to try and reach down behind himself, to get his fingertip pressing between the rim and the chain keeping him open. As he suspected he is completely dry and he wonders how Reaper even got the ball in, if he just shoved and Jack healed up afterwards. As if he's able to read Jack's mind Reaper chuckles.

“Don't worry, Jackie.” Reaper says, “I didn't tear you open. I worked you nice and lose and slipped it in. It was almost like the good old days.”

“Except I was passed out.”

“Ah, I'm not saying I was in the right, but awake or not, I doubt you would have just let me.”

“You're damn right.” Jack growls. “Gabe would never have-”

“Gabriel is dead!” Reaper breaks him off, “Best you get that through your thick skull now, Jack. Killing me won't bring him back. Getting yourself killed won't make any of it better. _The world needs us_ , isn't that what you said? Isn't that why you and Gabriel had to sneak around and hide your relationship, because the world couldn't stay afloat without the two of you carrying it? And now you are giving up?”

“I can't carry it alone.” Jack protests.

“I think that visor of yours is obscuring your line of sight, Jack” Reaper says. “I'm already fighting for the world! I'm making mankind stronger, more capable, tougher, instead of the whiny flock of children that cried for us to save them, just to throw us away when we had done our job.”

“Are you trying to recruit me?” Jack says, disbelief almost dizzying.

“Imagine a world that doesn't need heroes.” Reaper purrs, voice so close to Gabriel's that Jack's body actually reacts to it, traitorous as it is, “Isn't that what you wanted? A world where every man, woman and child can defend itself.”

“No.”

“A world where you didn't have to get up every morning and fight. A world where you could find that shred of happiness you and Gabriel always talked about. That small house in Toulouse, looking out over the Garonne?” Reaper has started moving. It happens so slowly that Jack doesn't even realize until he is right there, making the mattress dip. “Grow grapes and raise ducks, rabbits.” He reaches around to nudge at Jack's thigh, which falls open without Jack meaning to, and fingers close around Jack's cock, fingers that are soft from constantly being remade. The hand starts a slow slide up and down, and Jack doesn't even try to stop it. He could. He could kick out or roll away. Hell, he could just tell Reaper to stop and Jack is pretty sure he would. He's not Gabriel, but he's trying so hard to convince Jack that he could be. That _they_ could be. Maybe he truly thinks this is the way to keep Jack in the game, maybe he's just testing a new kid of torture. Either way Jack isn't entirely sure who's taking advantage of who right now.

Jack forgets the chain, forgets the handcuffs, lost in the feel of Reaper's hand around his aching cock. He feels like someone is sending high-voltage through him and it leaves his head spinning. Reaper sees, of course, sees everything the way he always did. Jack had been the inattentive one, the one who let his lover become brainwashed right under his nose and never even saw his own fall coming.

It's all too much and the ache inside his chest is too real, too overwhelming for Jack to acknowledge. He grabs the chain and pulls, again and again, despite the pain. It's useless, he knows, and Reaper knows it too.

“Here, let me help.” Reaper offers and Jack thinks he hears a note of fondness in that raspy voice. He takes the bottle on Jack's nightstand and it's meant as a joke, of course, when he reaches out and smears Jack's rim with the cold gel, because no amount of lube is going to be enough. Not to pull something of that size out of his ass without stretching the rim first. They both know, both know exactly what Jack is capable of. But the cruelest part of the joke might be that Jack can't help trying. There is no reason behind it, he knows it's not happening, but he still tightens his almost-numb fingers around the chain and pulls.

Reaper watches him while he continues to stroke Jack's cock with one hand, listening to the squelching sound the ball makes inside Jack's ass, to his jagged breath and the small sobs that escapes.

“You were always so beautiful like this, desperate and shameless.” Reaper says, finger making another round over Jack's abused rim. Precome beads from the slit of Jack's cock, threatening to drip onto the sheet.

“You're making a mess.” Reaper warns, and a coil of almost-solid smoke licks up the length of him, a hint of pressure as it wraps around the base. “Don't make me put a cork in it.”

Jack sucks in a ragged breath, one that's equal parts fear and anticipation. Maybe he should think of it as unnatural, unhealthy and, hell, _wrong_ , but he is pretty sure he lost the ability to make judgments on that long ago, what with AI robots running amok, music that heals, honest to god ninja cyborgs and lovers coming back from the dead. Either way, he can't seem to care anymore. He's an old man and who cares if he's gone and picked up some weird kinks over the years? At least no one is getting hurt, except for himself.

He looks down himself, past the bulge, just in time to watch as Reaper leans down and laps over the head of his cock, collecting the come there and swallowing it. Then a coiling smoke tendril is there, prodding at the slit, and Jack is so distracted by the tease that he barely notice Reaper's fingers pressing into his ass, two of them, pulling gently at the rim.

“If you come for me, Jack, I will help you get this chain off.” comes Reaper's voice, but it's more like a whisper in the darkness, echoing between shadows. “Come for me like you did for him. How many times? Thousands?”

Jack is too gone to pinpoint where the voice is coming from. He arcs his back and with a show of strength he didn't know he still had, he breaks the cuffs holding his hands, just to grip at the sheets. He moans, not even trying to silence himself, as Reaper takes Jack's cock to the root with no warning while he continues to work his ass, nudging at the ball to press it against Jack's prostate, again and again.

“You came a thousand times for him,” Reaper's voice bounces between the walls and whispers into Jack's ear at the same time. “You're going to come a thousand times for me.”

“Please,” Jack says, begging for the second time that day. Then he starts to tremble as the orgasm rips through him, fire and ice at the same time. Smoke fills up his insides and leaves him feeling scorched. He clenches around the ball, around Reaper's fingers, as his come spurts into the wet heat that surrounds him. He might be moaning hoarsely, might just be gasping for air.

Coming down is hard, maybe because he had been so high and maybe because it means he has to acknowledge what he had just been a part of. He blinks against the darkness, tries to catch the outline of Reaper as he moves around the room.

“You said you'd get this out of me.” Jack says and hates how raw his voice sounds. Maybe he really did moan as loudly as he though.

“The world never deserved you looking after it.” Reaper says, and this time it's his real voice, coming from somewhere near the exit. Jack hears the door open and then boots clanging down the metal steps.

“Reaper?” Jack calls, then louder and more desperate, “Gabriel!”

“I'll give you a hint, Jack.” the shadows whisper around him. “The ball is inflatable.”

Swallowing, Jack closes his eyes. Not that it makes much of a difference, in the pitch black office, but it helps him steady himself while he tells himself off for being a goddamn idiot. Then he digs a nail out of one of the pallets and punctures the leather balloon, his ass twitching around it as he pulls it out.

 _It's a shame_ , he thinks, rubbing his lower stomach where the bulge had been, _he almost wanted to keep it intact for next time._

Not stopping to think too deeply about the implications of that, he collects his clothes and his bag where Reaper had said they would be. Digging through the bag he finds his cell phone and sees a single text message blinking at him. It's from an unknown number.

“1/1000” it says and Jack lets out a shaky breath, because it should read like a threat, but somehow, after today, it feels like a dark promise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story with Zak Abel's Unstable on repeat, which is as good as any for setting a Reaper:76 mood, I guess.  
> Feel free to hit me up on my [Tumblr](http://flyingassassin.tumblr.com/), to shame me, love me or correct my spelling and/or grammar.  
> Please leave comments if you read to the end.


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